“Weel that,” answered Donal. “He’s been wi’ me an’ the nowt ilka day for weeks till the day.”
With that he hurried into the story of his acquaintance with Gibbie; and the fable of the brownie would soon have disappeared from Daurside, had it not been that Janet desired them to say nothing about the boy, but let him be forgotten by his enemies, till he grew able to take care of himself. Besides, she said, their father might get into trouble with the master and the laird, if it were known they had him.
Donal vowed to himself, that, if Fergus had had a hand in the abuse, he would never speak civil word to him again.
He turned towards the bed, and there were Gibbie’s azure eyes wide open and fixed upon him.
“Eh, ye cratur!” he cried; and darting to the bed, he took Gibbie’s face between his hands, and said, in a voice to which pity and sympathy gave a tone like his mother’s,
“Whaten a deevil was ’t ’at lickit ye like that? Eh! I wuss I had the trimmin’ o’ him!”
Gibbie smiled.
“Has the ill-guideship ta’en the tongue frae ’im, think ye?” asked the mother.
“Na, na,” answered Donal; “he’s been like that sin ever I kenned him. I never h’ard word frae the moo’ o’ ’im.”
“He’ll be ane o’ the deif an’ dumb,” said Janet.